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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27547708">Period Pains</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Actual_Writing_Trashcan/pseuds/Actual_Writing_Trashcan'>Actual_Writing_Trashcan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Colossus Hyperfixation Collection [91]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Deadpool (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Menstruation, Miscarriage, piotr is the best husband, smut party's over it's pain time</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:14:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,204</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27547708</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Actual_Writing_Trashcan/pseuds/Actual_Writing_Trashcan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Piotr comes home and finds out you're on your period. He goes through all the usual steps to comfort and take of you --but there's something more adding to your misery this time.</p>
<p>(Set after "It's Truly Magical.")</p>
<p>[All warnings in the tags.]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Piotr Rasputin/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Colossus Hyperfixation Collection [91]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1079544</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Period Pains</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A warm, late summer breeze swirls around him, ruffling his hair and making his shirt billow outwards. Sunlight peeks through the overhead tree canopies, dappling the path with tiny bits of gold. Cicadas buzz in the branches, marking the gradual end of summer.</p>
<p>Piotr smiles. Contentment surges through his very being –at being in the warm sunlight, at the simplicity and peace of nature. So much of his life was chaos, between being an X-Men and a teacher; moments like this are far and few between and are cherished for their rarity.</p>
<p>The “pre-school season” review meeting for the teachers and staff at Xavier’s had gone well. There’d been the usual curriculum reviews and discussion about budgeting –and the implementation of some new curfew rules after an incident with a group of high school students, Scott’s Porsche convertible, a considerable length of rope, and a skateboard. He’d left with his head held high, confident about the coming fall.</p>
<p>He unlocks the front door to your home –the two of you are careful to keep things locked up, if only because being an X-Men comes with making enemies—and steps inside. He can hear the intro to the <em>Great British Bake Off</em> playing on the TV; he smiles when he sees you curled up on the couch in the family room. He closes and locks the door behind him, drops his keys in the dish the two of you keep by the front door, then takes off his shoes before striding to the back of the house. “<em>Privet, myshka</em>. How are you?”</p>
<p>You look up at him, lips tugged into a miserable frown. Your eyes are red and puffy, as is your nose. A pile of used Kleenex sits on the coffee table in front of you, along with an opened, partially consumed mixed bag of mini candies.</p>
<p>“What happened?” He rushes to your side, sitting next to you on the sofa. He presses the back of his hand against your forehead, then checks you over for obvious injuries. “Did you hurt yourself? Are you sick?”</p>
<p>“My period started,” you mumble. You sniff, then scrub at your nose with another tissue. “Just… got emotional.”</p>
<p>The anxiety in his chest eases a bit; this, at least, is something he can handle in the sense that he already knows what to expect. “I am sorry, <em>myshka</em>.” He kisses the top of your head, then gently cups your cheek with one hand and rubs his thumb along the swell. “Do you need anything?”</p>
<p>You turn your head so you can kiss the palm of his hand. “We’re out of Midol. And I want more chocolate.”</p>
<p>He chuckles, then kisses your forehead. “Midol and more chocolate. Can do.” He tucks a lock of hair behind your ear, then smiles lovingly at you. “I will go to store. Text me if you want anything else.”</p>
<p>You lean forward and wrap your arms around his neck. “Thank you, baby.”</p>
<p>He hugs you gently. “Of course, <em>myshka</em>. Anytime.”</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <strong>Myshka: “Can you get some garlic bread while you’re at the store?”</strong>
</p>
<p>The text comes in halfway through his trek through the store. He’s already got Midol, some extra pads (he stopped in the bathroom before going and noticed you were low), and a couple different kinds of chocolate in his basket. He smiles as he reads your text, then adjusts how his mask sits on his nose before texting back. “<em>Will add it to basket</em>.”</p>
<p>
  <strong>Myshka: “Thanks.”</strong>
</p>
<p>He pockets his phone, then resumes strolling through the store. He picks up some strawberries –he wants to make chocolate covered strawberries for you, hence the multiple kinds of chocolate—then swings over the frozen goods session to get a couple loaves of garlic bread.</p>
<p>His phone buzzes again as he scans the shelves for the coveted garlic bread</p>
<p>
  <strong>Myshka: “And fried mozzarella sticks.”</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Myshka: “And smiley fries.”</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Myhska: “And cupcakes.”</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Myshka: “And hot dogs.”</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Myshka: “And Ben and Jerry’s.”</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Myshka: “…”</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Myshka: “Okay maybe not all of those.”</strong>
</p>
<p>He snorts and pockets his phone again.</p>
<p>You’re certainly right that he’s not going to get <em>all</em> of your requested items for you, if only because it’d be expensive, but one or two…</p>
<p>He’ll make it happen for you.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>Ya vernulsya</em>.” He closes and locks the front door behind him, then heads straight to the kitchen with his bags. “How are you?”</p>
<p>“Fine.” You voice wavers and your eyes are watery, but you wave him off when he starts fussing over you like a mother hen. “Just sucks, is all.”</p>
<p>Piotr tuts and bends over so he can kiss your forehead. “I am sorry, <em>moya serdtse</em>. Give me moment to put groceries away, and then I will come sit with you, <em>da</em>?”</p>
<p>You favor him with a fleeting smile. “That sounds good.”</p>
<p>He tucks the garlic bread, Ben and Jerry’s, and the mozzarella sticks in the freezer, then puts the strawberries in the fridge. He grabs the Midol, leaves the rest on the counter, then rounds the couch and sits down next to you. “Here.” He waits for you to take a dose of Midol, then draws you into his arms and tucks your head under his chin. “I am sorry you are not feeling well, <em>moya lyubov’</em>.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, baby.”</p>
<p>He settles back against the couch. His focus drifts to the TV screen –you’re still watching <em>The Great British Bake Off</em>—but he makes sure to smooth his hands up and down your back and leave plenty of kisses on your forehead, cheeks, and lips.</p>
<p>Then, you shudder against him and let out a strangled sob.</p>
<p>“What’s wrong?” He angles his head back so he can see your face. He frowns, concerned, and wipes a few tears off your cheeks. “<em>Myshka,</em> talk to me. Please.”</p>
<p>“I was –I was two weeks late,” you stammer out between sobs. You sniff loudly and blow your nose into a tissue. “The stupid app that tracks my cycle said so –and then it started today, and I…”</p>
<p>Piotr’s eyes widen as he processes the information. His lips pull into frown, and he hugs you closer. “I am so sorry, Y/N.”</p>
<p>“You’re sorry? It’s my damn fault.”</p>
<p>“No—”</p>
<p>“It is, Piotr!” Your body shakes as you draw in a broken, shuddering breath. “I –I can’t fucking get pregnant, and when I do, I can’t keep it!” You laugh, dark and self-abasing. “Of course, it’s not just my brain. My whole body’s fucked up.”</p>
<p>“Stop.” He presses his lips against your forehead, your tear-stained cheeks, your lips, almost desperately. “Stop. <em>Please</em>. None of this is your fault, <em>myshka</em>. These things <em>happen</em>.”</p>
<p>“It’s been <em>months</em>, Piotr—”</p>
<p>“So, we will keep trying.”</p>
<p>“But if I can’t—”</p>
<p>“Then we adopt. Or foster. Or we have many dogs.” He cups your face in his hands and waits until your looking at him before he continues. “These things happen, <em>myshka</em>. You are not broken; is not your fault. So, please—” his voice cracks, and he has to swallow around a lump in his throat before continue “—stop blaming yourself. <em>Please</em>. It breaks my heart.”</p>
<p>Your expression crumples. “I’m sorry, Piotr—”</p>
<p>“Is okay.” He holds your close, rocking you gently while you both cry. “Is okay, <em>myshka</em>. Is okay.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As it so happens, I'm also on my period the day I'm posting this lol (no miscarriage on my end tho, no worries there). My Ibuprofen isn't doing shit for my cramps, so some comments would be nice to read while I'm curled into this ball of pain eyyyyy *finger guns*</p></blockquote></div></div>
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